


the worst kind

by V_e_s_a_n_u_s



Series: Whumptober 2018 [14]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Torture, Love Triangles, M/M, Psychological Torture, Torture, Unrequited Love, Whumptober, pavellan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 06:21:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16299761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/V_e_s_a_n_u_s/pseuds/V_e_s_a_n_u_s
Summary: Day number 14 of #whumptober! Prompt was torture!Mahanon has been tortured before, but not like this... never like this.





	the worst kind

Mahanon had been tortured before, physically. It was one of the worst things in the world. He’d been captured a few years ago, when he was out on patrol around the Dalish camp. They caught him by surprise, before he could draw on his mana to summon a spell, and they clamped a large metal glove around his hand. He’d realised too late that it was enchanted, that he couldn’t cast a spell or fight back. They were only thugs, he learned. They were trying to see if there was anything valuable worth stealing from the clan. 

Obviously, there was. Each of the clans had a collection of artifacts recovered from the time of Arlathan, each being rare and unique in their own right. But Mahanon would be damned before he told  _ them  _ that. 

Unfortunately, the thieves didn’t seem to believe him that he didn’t know anything or that the clan had nothing of value. They took their knives to him, their searing pokers and their whips. He still had the scars. 

He told them nothing, of course, and when they released his hands to get at his fingernails when they thought he was passed out, he broke free. He killed them all. Without regret. Funnily enough, in the rest of his time with the clan, he never saw another human stray close to camp. Apparently, word travelled fast amongst the shems. And the word was that if you went near  _ that  _ clan, you’d have your body frozen and then your head cut off. 

Keeper  Istimaethoriel had reprimanded him for that, later, “Only dialogue will lead to understanding,” she would say. Only now did Mahanon truly understand what she meant, now that he was leading the Inquisition. 

So it was true. Mahanon had been tortured before. It wasn’t a pleasant memory, but it made him who he was. There was a reason for it. He put a stop to it. 

But he’d never been tortured like  _ this.  _

He couldn’t even do anything about it. How could he destroy his friends’ happiness in favour of his own? It would be inappropriate anyway, he kept telling himself, he was the Inquisitor. He was the boss. He couldn’t be seen...  _ dallying  _ with his inner circle: it wouldn’t do well for his reputation.

Especially when the object of his affection was a certain Tevinter mage… who was currently ‘dallying’ with a certain Qunari spy. 

It was awful to endure. 

Out in the field, between fights (and one time during), they would flirt back and forth, tone always teasing. The first time took him by surprise. Just as he was mustering up some sort of courage to just  _ talk  _ to Dorian, just gauge if he was mildly interested, Bull just came out with it. As if it was nothing. As if he was commenting on the weather.

“That staff’s in pretty good shape, Dorian,” the Iron Bull said, causing Mahanon to glance over. It almost seemed like the qunari was examining the mage more than his weapon, but he didn’t think much of it until- “Do you spend a lot of time polishing it?”

Dorian’s eyebrows raised in response, lips quirking into a smirk. He didn’t reply, however, only letting out a contented but almost petulant whine. Mahanon frowned. 

It had continued like that for weeks. Little things every now and again, quips. Brief, intermittent exchanges that ended almost as soon as they had begun. But Dorian had started replying, sometimes even teasing back. The elf knew he was interested. It was heart-breaking to watch. Ever since it had started, Mahanon hadn’t the heart to interfere. Bull hadn’t hesitated: he’d caught the necromancer’s attention almost effortlessly. (Not to say that the qunari hadn’t caught Mahanon’s own attention, but that was beside the point.)

The two were probably a better fit anyway. It was almost forbidden: the qunari and the Vint. Mahanon couldn’t deny there was some sort of a romantic irony there. And they did just  _ fit.  _ The elf couldn’t explain it. He didn’t think he’d ever even begin to have with Dorian what he already had with Bull. He just wasn’t as biting, as quick on his feet as either of them. And  _ certainly  _ less confident.

Mahanon remembered the first moment he started to lose all hope for ever having a chance with the mage. 

“Quite the stink-eye you've got going, Dorian,” the qunari said, watching the way the mage’s golden eyes were narrowed at the back of his head. 

Dorian, however, had clearly not expected to have been spotted so he huffed, crossing his arms, “You stand there,” he said, gesturing to him with almost-disgust, “Flexing your muscles,  _ huffing  _ like some... beast of burden with no thought save conquest!”

_ Well, he is right,  _ Mahanon had thought, peeking at the Iron Bull from over his tall collar when the qunari had turned his head to look at Dorian. He also thought that the statement might spark off some sort of spat, as it often did between the two men.

Mahanon had no such luck. He realised that when the qunari smirked.

“That's right,” he said, lowering his voice an octave, “These big, muscled hands could tear those robes off while you struggled,  _ helpless  _ in my grip.”

Mahanon’s eyes widened as he glanced fully behind him, trying to see the reaction to the statement. Surely the advance was unwarranted… right?

Bull was continuing though, walking just a little bit closer to Dorian, “I'd pin you down, and as you gripped my horns;  _ I. Would. Conquer. You.” _

Dorian’s eyebrows were raised, completely shocked, “Err... What?”

“No,” The Iron Bull tilted his head to the side, watching the mage’s reaction intensely, “Is that not where we're going?”

“No. It was very much  _ not.”  _ Dorian replied, much to Mahanon’s relief. 

Bull looked away from Dorian, just in time to make eye contact with the elf. Mahanon swivelled his head back around and said nothing. Not commenting on  _ why  _ he’d been so invested in the conversation. The qunari didn’t pry, either. He just narrowed his eyes at the back of his head, wondering what it was about. 

Bull wasn’t stupid, Mahanon knew that. He’d figure out sooner or later, if Mahanon wasn’t more careful. 

Their relationship progressed, much to Mahanon’s dismay. Slowly, he noticed. Probably because Dorian was still so aloof about it all. It came out, publically, in a passing conversation between the two (begrudgingly on Dorian’s part, at least). 

Torture as all of it was, that wasn’t the worst thing, though. Not that he had to endure the conversation as they wandered through the Exalted Plains. 

It was that Dorian had already told him. 

Mahanon and Dorian  _ had  _ become close over the months. Just not in the way that the elf had wanted. He went to visit the mage in his little crook in the library every evening, after a day’s work, if they were both in Skyhold. They’d sit, share a drink or a book, and chat. Mahanon cherished those moments. He was still clinging onto the hope that maybe,  _ maybe  _ he felt the same way. 

That is, until Dorian had leant over his book, putting his hand on the arm of the chair Mahanon was sitting in, and gave a mischevious grin, “I have something to tell you.  _ But  _ I wouldn’t want you to think me a gossip.”

“Dorian, I already think that. You’re a terrible gossip,” the elf laughed, closing his book and sitting back in his chair, “Nothing could change my mind about that, at the very least.”

“Oh I see how it is,” the mage had replied, also sitting back, twirling his moustache between his fingers, “I tell you  _ one thing-” _

“One thing?” Mahanon shook his head with a grin, “You’ve sought me out to tell me things about every one of my inner circle, Dorian,” he was still laughing, watching Dorian’s eyebrow raise, almost offended, “Every. Single. One.”

“Well, in that case,” Dorian said non-committally, with a shrug, “I suppose it’s not worth telling. My reputation is at stake.” 

The elf’s jaw dropped, “Well, I didn’t say that-”

“See?” Dorian smirked at him, eyes sparkling, “We’re  _ both  _ terrible gossips.”

Mahanon shrugged, chuckling, “Go on, then. What’s the news for this week?” 

It was a question he regretted asking. As Dorian divulged the details of his magical night with the qunari (keeping some details to himself, of course: he may want to tell someone, but he wasn’t a  _ savage),  _ Mahanon’s smile became more and more forced. He kept himself from looking down and away. Dorian was his friend. 

So he smiled along, asking questions so Dorian could get it all out of his system. He even high-fived him at one point. Because that’s what friends do. 

And it just showed him that he and Dorian would never be  _ more  _ than that. Mahanon was Dorian’s friend, the one he  _ told _ about his romantic endeavours. He’d never be the one in the story Dorian was telling. That broke his heart. 

Having to see Dorian, the man Mahanon loved, grin as he told him about the man  _ he  _ loved. And that man wasn’t him.

It was the worst form of torture he could imagine. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed! Let me know if you did XD


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